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No Questions About I.V.F. in Israel

By Amy Klein March 11, 2014 2:59 pmMarch 11, 2014 2:59 pm

Photo

A child among the spectators at a Salute to Israel Parade on Fifth Avenue in New York City.Credit Shiho Fukada for The New York Times

In the 13 years since I had left Jerusalem, souk Mahane Yehuda. which sells fruit, vegetables, spices and household goods, had become a thriving restaurant and night-life scene. A D.J. was spinning in one of the side alleys, 20-somethings were smoking hookahs at a bar, and Solomon and I were meeting some of his friends for some kubbeh in an establishment famous for its bulgar-encrusted meatballs.

“So how long are you here?” his friend Rachel asked. It was a natural question, but we hadn’t decided on our story. It was no secret that Solomon and I were doing in vitro fertilization in Israel, but did we want to share it with everyone in casual conversation (especially since his family and friends probably didn’t follow my journey in the American newspapers)? Maybe it would be easier if we didn’t talk about it all the time.

But the question would be hard to answer, otherwise.

We didn’t know how long we would be in Israel, we didn’t know when we could make plans because of the treatment, and we didn’t even know where we were going to live. We were starting off in Nahlaot, a charming, labyrinthine neighborhood in central Jerusalem not too far from the hospital, but that was only for this first I.V.F. cycle. After — a retrieval? embryo testing? a transfer? who knew? — Solomon wanted to move to Tel Aviv, where most of his family and friends lived.

“We’re actually here for I.V.F.,” I said, waiting for the typical response. When I had first told friends in America that we were doing fertility treatments, they immediately started in with the endless questions. I knew people were just curious, but sometimes, especially in the throes of hormones and sleepless nights from other medications, I didn’t feel like being Web MD. Just Google it, I wanted to say. After the questions came the judgments, sometimes voiced, other times implied: Aren’t you too old? Didn’t you wait too long? Why do you want children anyway?

“I know we’re old, but we really want a family,” I said to Rachel and Moshe. Then he gave me that look. I braced myself for the blame.

“You’re not that old,” he said, surprising me. “And of course you want children. Doesn’t everyone?”

I didn’t know what to say. I took a bite of the lamb kubbeh, but was almost in tears. (This was happening a lot lately: the injectable hormones of this full-force I.V.F. were almost quadruple what I had taken with mini-I.V.F. in America.)

I had worried it would be hard to be in Israel, where pregnant bellies seemed to burst from every woman’s shirt. I had visited after a miscarriage, and seeing babies in playgrounds, restaurants and even the theater was almost unbearable.

Yet I had not considered the benefits of doing fertility treatments in such a child-centered society, one that sponsored I.V.F. for a woman’s first two children. Here, they sent 30-year-olds to I.V.F. Here, they encouraged single women to freeze their eggs, or better yet, just get pregnant on their own. Here, there was no question if you would have children. Of course you want children. Of course!

I swallowed my food and exhaled with relief. I hadn’t realized how much of a burden it had been to always be explaining ourselves in New York City, a place that seemed to be lacking children, as most families moved out to the suburbs. I always had to say why we wanted a family, why we would be good parents. Why we were happy but still wanted to have children. Why we were trying so hard.

I had always supported all my friends who chose not to have children. I understood their choice because I had considered it myself. (Two natural pregnancies, while ultimately unsuccessful, changed my mind.) But somehow I always felt as if I had to justify myself to my child-free friends or to my friends who had had their children in their 20s and 30s.

But I didn’t have to do this kind of defensive posturing in Israel. My conversation with others — Solomon’s family, friends, even strangers we were meeting while searching for our next apartment — usually went the same way: a look of concern and sympathy, even a concession on rent quoted, and a heartfelt blessing. “Dears, good luck with that. I hope you have some good news soon.”

Amy Klein wrote the Fertility Diary for Motherlode through February 2014 and is now updating readers periodically on her continuing journey. She blogs on fertility topics at Fertility Authority. Follow her on twitter @amydklein.

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We're all living the family dynamic, as parents, as children, as siblings, uncles and aunts. At Motherlode, lead writer and editor KJ Dell’Antonia invites contributors and commenters to explore how our families affect our lives, and how the news affects our families—and all families. Join us to talk about education, child care, mealtime, sports, technology, the work-family balance and much more